


The Refuge

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Babies, Domestic, F/M, Post-Series, Romance, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 04:36:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7085884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post series, so there are spoilers! If you want a summary, I've put one as a note at the top. </p><p>No longer WIP :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



> Summary: After the finale, Sylvie and Athos find a place where they can flourish.

Sylvie, after a few days on the road, realises she’s heading home. She realises, with a startling ferocity, that that is not at all what she wants. She lies awake, that night, close to Athos, leeching his warmth from him, and asks him to take her somewhere. He promises to do so, but for the next few days they wander, aimless, Athos with a frown. Then he starts to write letters, and then they have a direction.

 

It’s not far, in the end, the place he brings her. He leads her, a little uncertain, down a shaded path towards a large house. Sylvie wonders about it, and then wonders _at_ it: it’s so big. She peers around as they enter a courtyard, curious. There’s a burst of laughter, high and light, and then a child runs across the yard, another on her heels. They run in front of Athos and Sylvie, completely uninterested in them, and vanish into another building.

 

“Where have you brought me?” Sylvie asks softly, turning to Athos.

 

“Welcome to the house of the Marquis de Belgard,” Athos says. “We are welcome here as long as we wish. We could stay forever, or just a few weeks, or a month.”

 

“Did you serve with him?” Sylvie asks, and Athos smiles, wide and happy and amused.

 

“Yes, I did, for many years. He’s very dear to me,” Athos says, then chuckles and links his arm with hers. “And to you as well.”

 

“To me? I don’t know him,” Sylvie says, laughing back at him, enjoying his antics.

 

“Porthos du Vallon, Marquis de Belgard, General of the French army,” Athos says, beaming at her surprise. “Of the Court of Miracles.”

 

He adds the last very softly, amazedly, his pride and happiness for his friend turning him warm and soft. Sylvie basks in that, for a moment. A woman comes down the steps of the house. She’s wearing trousers. It distracts Sylvie, and Athos notices, following her gaze.

 

“Jaqueline?” Athos says, stepping forward.

 

“Porthos wrote to us, telling us to expect you. You are most welcome. Yes, I am Jaqueline.”

 

She calls to someone, and their horse is taken, their bags too. Sylvie protests, but Jaqueline waves that away. They’re shown to a set of rooms, aired and prepared for them, their bags beating them there, sat waiting. Sylvie again tries to protest, but Jaqueline just laughs and leaves them alone to make themselves comfortable.

 

“Does she keep the house for Porthos?” Sylvie asks, sitting on the edge of the bed, resigning herself to being served for the moment. “Housekeeper?”

 

“No. Do you want to rest?”

 

“Tell me about it!” Sylvie says, laughing again, catching his hand and pulling him close. He kisses her, lowering himself to his knees between her legs, gazing up at her.

 

“I promise I will. Would you like me to tell you while you rest?” Athos says, pressing a hand and then a kiss to her stomach, then resting his head on her thigh.

 

“I think perhaps I’d like to rest,” Sylvie says. “With you. You can find a way, surely, to help me relax?”

 

She strokes his cheek, then presses her thumb to his bottom lip, demanding etry. She feels his breath hitch where he’s pressed to her leg, and she smiles, pleased. She takes hold of his chin and tilts his head, bending to kiss him. His hands move over her, sure now, asking permission for each place he touches, each item of clothing he removes.

 

Later they really do rest, lying side by side, naked, on the bed. Athos is limp, head back, breathing hard. Sylvie is pleased with herself for taking him apart so thoroughly. She shifts so she can rest her head on his shoulder, his arm around her, and closes her eyes, enjoying the last of her pleasure trembling gently through her.

 

“Porthos never knew his father,” Athos murmurs. “We discovered who he was only four, maybe five years ago. We none of us expected Porthos to inherit, because meeting Belgard had ended in acrimony, not good will.

 

“A year into the war, we were stationed outside Alsace, and Porthos received a letter. d’Artagnan and I thought little of it. Aramis was still shut up in his monastery, then. Porthos had not… to begin with, Porthos found it a little difficult to adjust to Aramis’ absence. He was very angry, and very sad, by turns. So we missed his reaction to the letter.

 

“d’Artagnan always puts it that Porthos ‘got himself captured’ by the Spanish, and he’s not far wrong. Porthos was reckless in those days, but he usually watched his back and protected himself. To the point of paranoia. This time, he didn’t. He didn’t seem to care.

 

“We rescued him of course, and demanded an explanation. He told us that Belgard had died, that he’d left everything, including the title, to Porthos, acknowledging him as his son. Porthos was very angry.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It’s Porthos, so there were lots of reasons, but I think, mainly, it was grief. Belgard was not a kind man, he turned Porthos’ mother out and left her alone and penniless, and with child, in the Court of Miracles. It’s a miracle either of them survived. She died when Porthos was five.”

 

“Good lord,” Sylvie murmurs, unable to help herself.

 

“General du Vallon,” Athos whispers, grinning. “It makes him laugh to be called that, laugh out of sheer happiness.”

 

Sylvie turns her head and kisses the first bit of skin her lips meet, fond. His love for his friends is something she values. She loves him for it.

 

“Porthos had been left, so many times. Aramis’ decision to stay at the monastery hurt Porthos so much, because he felt abandoned. Felt that he had once again been left to look after himself. That someone who was supposed to care for him had decided he wasn’t worth it. When Belgard had Porthos inherit after all, that all bubbled to the surface. That Porthos had this now, and not when he needed it so badly, and that he had so much but still not what he needed, that he had things but not people? It was grief. Sheer grief.”

 

“You know them very well.”

 

“Yes. d’Artagnan and I spent a lot of time and effort making Porthos believe and really feel that we were there, with him, always. Porthos didn’t want the house, or the title. He kept both, though. He wrote to the friend he had left in the Court of Miracles, and to a Mother Superior who we know, and to a few other people.”

 

“What did he do? What is this place?” Sylvie asks, opening her eyes. Athos smiles at her.

 

“This is place of refuge. Anyone may stay here,” Athos says. “It is a convent of sorts, or a monastery, but run by a group of people, not nuns or monks. Though Perette was a sister, for a long while. At the moment, it houses refugees from the war, for the most part. Orphans, displaced people. Porthos tells me they are looking for someone to teach the children.”

 

Sylvie sighs in utter contentment, and looks at him for a moment- his clean pale skin, the freckle on his shoulder. Then she closes her eyes again. To have someone know her so well, so deeply, is such a comfort. She knits her fingers with Athos’, and he draws a blanket over them, placing a kiss carefully in her curls as if she’s precious, fragile. She sighs again, pressing close to him.

 

“We can stay as long as you wish, forever if you like. I understand if you want to move on, though. If you’d rather find somewhere of our own, just us,” Athos murmurs.

 

“You know I don’t,” Sylvie says. “It was never the people we left Paris for. It is safe, here?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then let’s stay, at least for the moment. If we want to move, after a bit, then we move. But I am content.”

 

Athos kisses her again, arms circling her, still careful and warm and as if she’s the most precious person in the world.

 

*

 

The baby comes with Athos and Jaqueline both in attendance. Jaqueline has done this many times, and is very good at soothing and talking Sylvie through it. She tells Sylvie that she was very quiet, and quick. Sylvie feels like she was very noisy, and the baby took forever coming out. She doesn’t mind, though. With her son in her arms, and Athos on the bed supporting her tired arms, she doesn’t mind a bit.

 

“You’re bleeding a lot,” Jaqueline murmurs. “There’s nothing to worry about, you’ve just got a small tear. May I?”

 

Sylvie nods, too tired to speak. She focuses on her son while Jaqueline examines her. Athos holds her. She can feel the anxiety in him, and he keeps glancing down at Jaqueline. Sylvie looks down, too, at the head of coarse, springy coils of hair, nestled between her thighs like an extension of the hair growing there. It’s funny, and she laughs, resting a foot on Jaqueline's shoulder.

 

“Where did Porthos find you?” Sylvie asks, beaming.

 

“The bleeding’s stopped, everything’s okay,” Jaqueline says, straightening and coming around the bed. “You need rest, now. Porthos didn’t find me. Flea did. She trusted me enough to tell me about this place. As you know, I’ve told you. Now, rest.”

 

“Flea,” Sylvie murmurs. “I need a name for my son, Jaqueline. Flea won’t do.”

 

“No,” Jaqueline agree, laughing. “What about Raoul? René?”

 

“Thomas,” Athos whispers.

 

“No,” Sylvie says. “Olivier Hubert.”

 

“Sylvie,” Athos reproaches gently. “Not ‘Olivier’, please.”

 

“I like it. It suits him. He’s your son, isn’t that the tradition?”

 

“It is.”

 

“I’d like a little of that, for him.”

 

Athos is silent for a long time, then he agrees, gazing at his child in her arms. Sylvie beams at him. Jaqueline helps her lie down, and Athos takes the baby. Sylvie watches him, her heart beating hard, so big in her chest. It feels like she’s swelling, growing six sizes, for her son, her child. Her Athos.

 

“I love you,” Sylvie whispers, tears springing into her eyes. “Both of you. So much.”

 

Athos lays the baby on the bed, and lies the other side, and his arms reach around them both. Sylvie sighs deeply, and lets herself sleep.

 

They’ve settled into life at the refuge. Sylvie teaches the children and pitches in wherever there’s a need, Athos does accounts and spends a lot of time in the stables. He offers anyone who wants to learn to fight lessons, including the women. They’ve had a busy few months, but now it feels like they’ve always been here, as if they have a place.

 

Jaqueline has been a big part of that, for Sylvie. She’s such a fierce woman, so much strength. There’s also a deep vein of vulnerability, though, and Sylvie’s very protective of her. That seems to be returned. About a month into their stay, a woman had turned up with a slender young daughter, and Athos had stared at them a long while before greeting them as Madam and Mademoiselle Pepin. Athos and Denise, Madam Pepin, had become fast friends.

 

Sylvie dreams, while she sleeps, of her son growing up strong and bright. There’s not blade in his hand, while she sleeps. In the safety of her dreams he stays forever in the sunshine, happy and laughing and loved. So very loved. When she wakes both Athos and the babe are still there. She feeds the child, and whispers.

 

“Olivier, Oli, my little Oli. Olivier.”

 

She decides that it fits perfectly. She’s quickly get used to it. She strokes his head, already covered in black hair. He’s lighter than her, his skin a beautiful brown still, though. When his eyes open, they’re blue. Sylvie laughs to see that, and looks up into Athos’ eyes, also blue. He’s staring at Olivier, completely caught. Sylvie looks back down too.

 

They’re left alone for almost a week, only Denise and Jaqueline visiting, bringing them food. Athos strays out of their rooms, but not often. Sylvie remains, resting, moving slowly. She aches, soreness bleeding into places she hadn’t known existed in her. She’s got Olivier, though, so she doesn’t mind a bit. She feeds him, and wraps him in blankets, keeps him warm and safe and happy.

 

“He’s a lovely child,” Jaqueline says, when he’s a week old exactly, holding him. She’s sitting in the chair while Sylvie washes and dresses. “His eyes are amazing. Such a little beauty. Do you think his hair will curl?”

 

“Likely so,” Sylvie says, tying on her skirts.

 

“Wonderful,” Jaqueline says. “Wonderful. I’ve helped lots of babies come into this world, this one is lovely. Olivier, you are lovely.”

 

Sylvie turns, fully dressed finally, and goes to sit with her friend and her son. She makes no move to take Olivier from her, enjoying watching for the moment. Jaqueline updates her on how the children are doing, and tells her about Monsieur Renard causing chaos in the kitchen in an attempt to cook. Athos is, apparently, spending lots of time with the horses feeding them apples and boasting about Olivier.

 

“Is he really? The daft button,” Sylvie says. “Why not boast to human company?”

 

“Oh he has. So much that when people see him approaching with that smile, they flee if they have any sense. He can talk for hours, and you might never escape him. Denise is the only one with the patience for it, and I think she mostly listens as a way to have a break from Rochelle, who is demanding to be allowed to marry.”

 

“Who is she in love with this time?” Sylvie asks, laughing.

 

Mademoiselle Pepin has turned out to be quite the handful. She’s very bright, Sylvie knows because she teaches her. Very beautiful, too. A delicate girl, not quite woman yet, still very young. At fourteen she’s also falling in love every other week, usually with someone highly inappropriate. Jaqueline starts to laugh, eyes bright with happiness.

 

“This time it is me,” Jaqueline says. “We have explained marriage law to her, but she is insistent.”

 

“Her innocence does Denise credit,” Sylvie murmurs, thoughtful, more serious than she meant to be. “To have lost so much and still such trust in the world and people.”

 

“It is wonderful,” Jaqueline agrees. “I’m sure she’ll find someone better to love soon enough, but I must admit I’m enjoying the adoration a little.”

 

“Bask in it,” Sylvie says.

 

Olivier wakes up, then, and gets hungry, so Sylvie takes him back, cradling him against her breast.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings: fire, injury, war, talk of non-con (nothing explicit, no details, not something that's happened specifically),

Denise’s back is sore, from the fields. She comes to Sylvie, as people have begun to. She sits in the back of the room that’s been turned to a classroom while Sylvie finishes her lesson. Sylvie has Olivier with her, today. He’s six weeks old and a noisy little person, gurgling and laughing and imitating language sounds. She usually has Athos sit outside the room with him, so he doesn’t disturb her pupils. Athos, though, is currently sleeping off a slight fever.

 

“What can I do for you, Denise?” Sylvie asks, approaching her after the lesson.

 

Rochelle Pepin comes over, too, to stand by her mother. When Sylvie learns of the problem, the three of them make their way to the rooms Sylvie and Athos have taken over, one of which is set up for Sylvie to treat people when they need it. Rochelle takes Olivier and keeps him happy while Sylvie rubs Denise’s back, finding the muscles that are causing problems and helping ease them, checking for injury.

 

“Perhaps you can do other duties, for a while, and rest this?” Sylvie suggests.

 

“There isn’t anything else I’m skilled at,” Denise says.

 

“What about helping in the kitchen? You can come here when you finish work, whenever you like, and I’ll do this. I would suggest not doing anything too strenuous until the muscles heal, though I am happy to help you,” Sylvie says.

 

Denise nods. She stays lying on her front, bare from the waist up, relaxed and loose. Until, that is, Athos comes wandering through. Then she’s up and pulling on clothes, flushing and embarrassed. Sylvie scolds Athos and plucks Olivier up from Rochelle, sending both male inhabitants of the room out. Athos wanders off again, yawning, son cradled to his chest. He’d only been after Olivier. Sylvie knows her Athos.

 

“Sorry,” she says to Denise, helping her tie the stays of her clothing back into place. “I thought he’d sleep a while longer.”

 

“Don’t apologise. It’s alright. I know Athos would never do anything, it was modesty not fear,” Denise says softly, glance straying to her daughter.

 

Sylvie knows that many of the women here understand that fear of mens’ glances, the way their eyes stray. Sylvie herself had her father’s protection, for which she has been grateful all her life, but still she knows that fear as well. Women come, now, seeking safety, who know it more than others. Sylvie sees them, their strength and courage, their anger and bitterness. That the soldiers meant to protect take so much. Sylvie makes sure that she teaches her pupils about that, about respect and decency, how to conduct oneself and how to listen to a partner, as well as Latin and letters and history and the rest.

 

“Maman, I’m hungry,” Rochelle says, breaking the intimacy that’s been quietly resting between the two women. Denise nods and takes her daughter, and Sylvie goes through to the inner room, to find Athos and Olivier.

 

“Sorry for walking in,” Athos says, sat up in a chair, Olivier in the crook of one knee, Athos’ hand on the child’s chest. They’re playing, Sylvie can tell because Olivier is laughing and babbling in a way that suggests Athos was singing. “I didn’t realise you had someone in there, I just heard Oli.”

 

“You always just hear Oli,” Sylvie says, going to brush Athos’ hair away from his face. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Better. Almost well. As Porthos always says, fine and fit,” Athos says.

 

“Able to fight the murderous hordes and bring heaven to it’s knees,” Sylvie adds, laughing.  

 

“Porthos always was ambitious,” Athos agrees equably.

 

They laugh, Athos remembering his friend fondly, Sylvie remembering the big, kind man who, despite being a soldier and technically a part of the ‘murderous hordes’, was still so gentle. She bends to kiss Olivier, who will grow up hearing stories about all his uncles, from Athos. She straightens, and thinks of Constance.

 

“We should make sure Oli hears about the women we left in Paris, as well as the men,” Sylvie says, not looking at Athos, her mind back on Denise and that fear.

 

“I tell him stories about Constance,” Athos says, sounding affronted.

 

“No,” Sylvie says, as gently as she can. “You tell him stories about d’Artagnan that Constance is in. I will tell him, about her love for her queen, and the schemes the two of them hatched, the way two women ran against Feron, leading Paris away from his cruelty, while you men were at war.”

 

“You didn’t even like the queen,” Athos says.

 

“No, I disagree with her politics, there’s a difference,” Sylvie says. “Now, if you are ‘fine and fit’, I’m going to leave Olivier with you for a bit. I have work.”

 

“Feed him, first, I cannot provide that,” Athos says, holding the baby up.

 

Sylvie loves feeding her son. She loves the intimacy of it, the way his body rests against hers. He’s not a particularly good eater, though, and he gets distracted. Her arm hurts from holding him in position, and her nipples are always sore from his suckling, her breasts sore too. Holding something cool there helps, but she just has to bear it, really. Athos comes and sits with her and rubs her back, and supports her tired arm, helping her shift Olivier into place so he’ll latch on.

 

“I love you,” Athos says, into her neck, pushing her hair out of the way so his face can rest there instead.

 

“Yes,” Sylvie says, pressing a kiss to his still-warm forehead. “I know you do.”

 

“I don’t understand, about Constance and Denise and the women. I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me,” Athos says. “I know you’re trying to tell me something.”

 

“I know. Don’t worry about it. I’ll find a way. You listen, and you try. You respect it when I tell you, even if you don’t understand,” Sylvie says. A wave of affection for him washes over her, and she smiles, kissing his hair again. “I love you, as well. Take Oli, rest, and I’ll be back in a few hours.”

 

She leaves him, then, searching out Jaqueline. They need to go over resources and space, a new group of women and children refugees have recently arrived. Jaqueline is used to Paris. She knows about running safe places, and making home, and creating space for people, but she doesn’t know about running an estate, how to work the land, how to make a harvest successful. Sylvie knows a bit about these things, from home. She and Jaqueline, together, manage. Athos comes and grudgingly helps with the estate side of it, sometimes.

 

“I thought we could send two of the women with Louise, to the market. We have a lot of extra, at the moment. The corn and potatoes are both early,” Sylvie says. “We’ve got a lot of cabbage too.”

 

“I think Madame Therese Comeau, and Virginie Maintenon would do well selling,” Jaqueline says.

 

They talk about Denise and whether they can shift things so she has a less strenuous job, and they talk about the school and what resources they want to put into it. Then they move away from business. They walk through the house, checking space, and do inventory in the kitchen, and gossip.

 

She goes to feed Olivier again and makes sure Athos is alright with him, and not asleep or descended into feverish delirium. He’s fine, so Sylvie spends the afternoon and early evening helping prepare the cart for the market tomorrow. They load two, in the end. She learns a new song, and memorises it for Olivier, from Madam Comeau, a cheerful, full-bodied woman with strong arms and back and a willingness to work that Sylvie admires. Against the thin, pale Virginie Maintenon Madame Cormeau is as dark as she is strong. The two women are opposites, but clearly good friends- they sing together, make jokes, pass conversation back and forth easily, and touch without compunction.

 

Sylvie arrives to dinner tired and happy, aching a bit from the exercise of the afternoon. It’s Robert’s turn to cook, which means stew and thick slabs of bread and cheese. He’s not a bad cook, as long as he’s making stew. He’s got to be as old as Olivier is young, and he walks with a distinctive roll that’s almost a limp. Athos joins her, late, looking half asleep. Oli looks sleepy, too, and bad tempered about not being actually asleep.

 

It’s a week before the new refugees are properly settled. There are three men among them, disabled by the war, who have a lot of bitterness and refuse to help out or talk to anyone not from their village. They speak a dialect Sylvie can’t make sense of, keeping people carefully at a distance. There’s something violent about them, and Sylvie notes that most of the women steer clear of them. She sends Athos to sit with them, and he can at least understand them.

 

They don’t much like Athos, but they tolerate him as a fellow soldier. Athos never tells them why he isn’t fighting, and lets them draw their own conclusions. He manages to encourage them to sit out when he teaches people to fight. They don’t like the women learning, so they shout criticism. It breaks them out of their dialect, and gives the women pointers. They’re not unpleasant, merely critical. Sylvie admires Athos’ ability to judge people and find where they might fit.

 

It’s dark, one evening, night coming early with gusts of rain. Sylvie’s sat inside with Olivier and Jaqueline, going over supplies. They’re trying to work out how to have things carted in without drawing attention to themselves and bringing the war, currently a little too close for comfort, down on them. It’s not the front they’re near, luckily, but there have been some small skirmishes recently, bringing with them influxes of people. They are so many, now, that they’re working on making the barns into living quarters.

 

“We need flour,” Jaqueline says. “We’re running low, after the mice got at it. We can’t buy in huge amounts, we just don’t have the space to store it, and then there are the mice.”

 

“We need kittens,” Sylvie says. “Well, cats, but kittens are best. They’ll settle better. I’ll ask around the nearby farms for a litter.”

 

“The children will love that.”

 

“They’ll have to live outside, not in the house, or they won’t learn to hunt and will just eat scraps from the kitchen. We need them to eat the mice.”

 

“You know best,” Jaqueline says.

 

They laugh, and Sylvie pours them more wine, toasting that. There’s a disturbance in the lower part of the house and they listen idly, waiting for it to abate. When it doesn’t they get to their feet and head down, wondering who’s got into what trouble now, and hoping it’s not someone from the village up complaining about Pierre again. They told Pierre to leave, after he stole from them and threatened one of the women, and he did, but he kept on hanging around the village.

 

It’s not Pierre. It’s Porthos, directing a steady stream of people into one of the reception rooms, the doors held wide open. Madame Comeau is there, frustrated and bad tempered, trying to get an explanation from Porthos. Who is ignoring her. Virginie Maintenon comes sweeping down the stairs, small, white, in her night-dress and a robe.

 

“Stop this at once!” She shouts, voice rising over the chaos, going to Madame Comeau’s side. “What is the matter, Therese?”

 

“This man,” Madame Comeau says, outrage pouring off her. “He is invading our home.”

 

Porthos still isn’t paying much attention, but he’s stopped. There are no more people to come in, that probably has to do with it. He turns, and Sylvie sees his face. She gives Olivier to Jaqueline and runs down the steps, catching Porthos’ arm and pulling it over her shoulder. His knees give a moment later. Virginie looks on, then comes to help, and they lower the big man, armour clad, to the floor, back against the wall.

 

“This is Porthos du Vallon, Maquis de Belgard,” Sylvie says. “The house is his. Madame Cormeau, help Jaqueline work out where we can settle these new people. Virginie, run and find my leather satchel, from my rooms. If Athos is there, bring him. If not, send someone to find him.”

 

They go, Jaqueline soothing Madame Cormeau. Sylvie tilts Porthos’ chin to get a look at him. He’s drenched in sweat, eyes wide and pupils blown. Definitely a fever. Whether from illness or injury she can’t yet tell. She starts work on his armour, and has him down to his shirt and trousers when Athos comes pelting down the stairs, half dressed, falling to his knees beside them.

 

“Porthos,” Athos breathes. “What have you done to yourself? What are you doing here?”

 

“Oh. Hello, Athos. Forgot you were ‘ere,” Porthos says, voice high and slurred.

 

Sylvie tugs his shirt away, looking for blood. There is none. Bruising, new scars, but no injury. He’s feverish, though, she’s pretty sure. She tests the skin at the back of his neck, and finds it hot. She pulls off his trousers, but leaves his underthings, remembering they’re still in the hallway. Virginie sets her satchel at her side then retreats.

 

“Is he hurt?” Athos asks.

 

“I can’t find anything,” Sylvie says, running her hands over his legs, then his arms, looking for breaks or tears in the bones or joints.

 

“Athos,” Porthos says, a terrible smile cracking his face, his eyes closing.

 

“What happened?” Athos wonders, sitting back on his heels, Porthos’ hand in his own. “The front isn’t close. Last I heard he was miles and miles away.”

 

Sylvie checks Porthos’ ankles and feet, then shrugs. They get him upright and up to their rooms, leaving his things in a heap in the hall. There’s a bed in the room Sylvie uses to see people needing her help, and they lay him down there. He opens his eyes and reaches out, hand resting against Sylvie’s cheek.

 

“Spanish were buying,” Porthos murmurs. “Bandits in the woods, couple of leagues from here. Weapons. Came to tell ‘em off. They had powder, there was an explosion. Sent Brujon back to the front with the men, decided to bring these here. Whole village, burnt to the ground.”

  


She turns him onto his front and cuts his shirt away, finally able to examine his back. She sucks in a breath. He’s burnt across his shoulders, red and blistering. She knows burns. She presses very, very gently, and Porthos yells in agony. She breathes in relief. Athos knows burns, too. They all do, after Grimaud. He smiles at her. It’s unusual, that hearing pain in their friend brings them joy.

 

“Bloody hell,” Porthos says, gasping for breath. “Could’ve just asked if it ‘urt.”

 

“Does it hurt?” Sylvie asks.

 

Porthos turns his head to glare at her, his cheek squishing his face against the pillow. Athos laughs, eyes closing, then he leaves. Sylvie cleans and wraps the burns, treating them with the herbs she and Constance worked so hard to find out about. They did a lot of research on the treatment of burns, and Sylvie knows a fair amount, now. When she’s finished, Porthos is asleep.

 

“Jaqueline’s here,” Athos says, coming back into the room. “She’s brought Olivier, he needs feeding. Sorry.”

 

Sylvie nods and gets to her feet, weary. Jaqueline’s in the outer room, and she gives Sylvie a sympathetic look. Sylvie doesn’t want her sympathy. She takes Olivier and sits beside Jaqueline, feeding him, waving Athos away. He goes back to sit with Porthos.

 

“We have twenty more bodies,” Jaqueline says, sounding as tired as Sylvie feels. “We’ve given them beds where they are, for now. Fed them, treated their burns and injuries. They’ve been living with the threat of bandits for months, the men coming out of the woods and taking what they like.”

 

“Porthos told us a little,” Sylvie says. “There was a fire?”

 

“An explosion, and a fire. Yes. The French army came and saved the day, sort of. Many are lost. We have ten more who are here but want to move on. Of the thirty, seventeen are children. Many are orphans. We’ve found them carers, for the moment, but in the long run there are at least four who have no one.”

 

“I will talk to Athos. I think, now that Olivier is bigger… I’ll speak with Athos,” Sylvie says.

 

Jaqueline nods.

 

“We need that flour now, more than ever,” she says.

 

“Porthos and Athos will come up with something, between them. Best strategists France has to offer,” Sylvie assures.

 

Jaqueline manages a warm smile, and then leaves. Sylvie sighs. She hopes she’s not lying. She believes Athos and Porthos are the best, but she also knows that Athos is distracted and Porthos injured. She’s seen them do more with less, though. She remembers them coming for her, all those months ago, in Saint Antoine, and smiles.

 

“We’ll be just fine, my little Oli,” Sylvie whispers to her son.

 

*

 

Porthos comes up with a plan, for the flour. He acts the Marquis for a while, as his back heals, and makes friends with the local landowners. He pretends to plan to throw a party, and lavishes money on supplies, bringing in food and tools and everything they could possibly need under cover of that.

 

It’s not so much that their refuge is a secret. It needs to remain out of the public eye, in order to remain safe. War means levering for any advantage, and though refugees tend to be poor and unimportant in the grand scheme of things, a large house full of supplies, weapons, money, is a draw for both enemies and outlaws.

 

Sylvie wonders what Porthos will do when the date of the party arrives, seeing as his house is hardly a place to have lords and ladies expecting a dinner and ball. He calls Elodie from Paris, though, and then tells everyone he’s too busy with his wife and child to bother being host, and cancels the party. He gets a reputation for being eccentric, loving his family, and being annoying. Which means he gets left alone.

 

“You’re welcome to stay here,” Jaqueline tells Elodie, bouncing Marie on her knees, laughing with the little girl.

 

“I think Paris is better,” Elodie says, softly, eyes on Porthos where he and Athos are telling stories to the children, across the room. “He comes to Paris more often than he is here.”

 

“Is it alright? Being alone?” Sylvie asks.

 

“I’m not alone,” Elodie says, smiling. “I have Constance, often. She’s taken to Marie-Cessette. The queen, too. Her majesty has made me her confident. d’Artagnan is a good friend to me. He lets me hang around the garrison, teach the recruits how to use a bow and arrow, encourages me to help Constance if I wish. I think he enjoys having a child about the place.”

 

“Him and Constance are not…?” Jaqueline asks.

 

“No,” Elodie says. “They don’t want that.”

 

Porthos and Athos come over, bringing Olivier, pretty much always in Porthos’ arms these days, over for a feed. Porthos scoops Marie-Cessette up, when he’s given Olivier over, and dances her around the room, setting her laughing and shouting, little hands catching in his beard. He roars and swings her, and then settles her in a hug, sighing, swaying.

 

“He’s leaving,” Sylvie realises.

 

“Tomorrow morning,” Elodie says, and Athos nods.

 

They spend the evening together, with their children, drinking wine and reminiscing about Paris. Late that night, Sylvie is woken by Porthos coming into their room. Athos gets up, and the two men sit in the window, talking quietly until morning. She finds them still there when she wakes, silent now.

 

“I need to say goodbye to Elodie and Marie,” Porthos says.

 

“Come visit again,” Athos says.

 

Porthos gives him a tight smile, then gets to his feet, stretching with a wince. He comes to kiss Sylvie’s cheeks, and then he’s gone.

 

“He doesn’t like it here,” Athos says.

 

The day is subdued. In their lessons, the children are rowdy and uninterested in learning, so she sends them out to play, instead. Jaqueline comes and they sit together to watch over them, going through their new supplies and talking about what they can do now they have proper tools. Two of their new residents have skill in building, as well.

 

Within a week, they’ve begun converting the stables into new rooms, and within two the project has sucked in almost everyone to help, even the three men who still refuse to do much more than help Athos correct fighting stances and sword grips. Robert hobbles through the building work, bringing food and water.

 

Sylvie watches, sticking to duties away from the chaos. She leaves it to Athos and Jaqueline. She finds herself helping in the kitchen with Denise more and more, bringing Olivier with her. They cook and clean and laugh about how they’re doing the duty of wife for hundreds of people. Denise tells Sylvie about her husband, when it’s quiet and they’re alone.

  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings: orphaned children

Olivier is eleven months old. Sylvie watches Athos running about outside, Olivier tight and safe in his hands, flying, swooping. Olivier laughing happily, waving his chubby little legs. Athos’ skin is sunburnt and pink, the giving way of autumn making him forget how easily he burns. Sylvie turns away, her heart aching for something unaccountable.

Since Porthos came and went with such drama and chaos, things have been very quiet. The war has moved on from them, away from the countryside around. As it became safer to travel, people began to leave. Denise and Rochelle among them. Sylvie misses them in the kitchen, in classes. Misses them. They moved on, though, and that’s good. They had been trying to reach Monsieur Pepin’s family, far from the war and Paris, safe. Denise promised to write when they arrived.

Now there are about fifty of them, living and working here. Many are children, and people have begun to spread word and bring more orphans here, for care and comfort and a better life than many can offer. Sylvie loves it. Athos is still uncertain about welcoming someone into their little family, but they have people coming and going, providing care until more stable arrangements can be made. Sylvie doesn’t allow herself to get to attached.

“Sylvie?” Jaqueline asks, coming through from outside, hands earthy. She’s been loading carts for market.

“Yes, where do you need me?” Sylvie asks. She’s often needed, now there are less of them.

“Nowhere, I think. I was wondering if you were okay,” Jaqueline asks, peering at her steadily, eyes dark and compelling.

“No,” Sylvie admits. “I’m not sure why, but I’m not okay.”

Jaqueline nods. They stand together by the window and watch Athos. There are three little boys running after him and Oli, and Athos gathers them into his game. Sylvie can hear his soft voice, his laughter. She feels something inside her heave at the thought of him, of her son. She turns away.

“Olivier no longer needs milk so often, does he?” Jaqueline asks.

“Not so often,” Sylvie says.

“Then leave him to Athos. You have cared for them both for too long. You’re not Athos’ mother, and you don’t have to be with Oli every moment of every day. Come to market tomorrow, and then walk back, taking your time.”

Sylvie nods. She writes to Constance, that night, and then writes to Porthos. In the morning she feeds Olivier, then leaves him with Athos. Athos gives her a questioning look, but asks nothing, accepting the responsibility with pleasure. Sylvie heads to market perched on the back of the cart, calling a halt when they pass a local young man who she has used as messenger in the past. She dispatches her letters, and they continue.

She lets herself relax for the day, lets herself want peace and quiet away from Athos and Olivier. She moves through the market, buying what they need, talking to the other women, listening to their worries about their farms, complaining in her turn. Usually they end up laughing, which is good. Sylvie, when the others pack up, takes an apple, ties her skirts up, and sets off towards the refuge, taking a meandering route.

When Sylvie gets back she’s ready to see Olivier, pleased to have him in her arms. She asks him about his day and he chatters wordlessly back, Athos translating here and there. She listens, then watches Athos moving around their rooms. He’s watching her in return.

“Are you happier, now?” Athos asks.

“I just need a break sometimes.”

“From us.”

“Yes, from you, from Oli, from this. I’m a mother, and I love that, but I’m also a woman, and a person, and I feel like I’ve been over taken by this… this, I don’t know. Mothering. You keep letting me mother you.”

“I thought you wanted to.”

“That I wanted to wash your clothes and cook your meals, clean your house and raise your son? No, Athos, I wanted a partner not a husband.”

“I don’t know what you want if you don’t tell me.”

“I shouldn’t need to. You should pay more attention.”

“Are we fighting?”

“No. I’m asking you to stop seeing me as your carer. I understand that you need it sometimes, but I don’t want to do it all the time.”

“I don’t. Do I?”

“Yes. You do.”

“What about when you tie me up, look after me that way? Do you want to not do that?”

“We haven’t done that in months, we haven’t done anything in months.”

“You didn’t want to!” Athos says, frustration coming through.

“Well, now I do. Maybe you’ll stop being so annoying, if we do that. Stop trying to, I don’t even know what it is. You just want me to do things for you.”

“Sorry.”

Sylvie nods, and they leave it aside. They start including sex in their lives again, after that, though. Athos, once he’s able to be cared for in that way, sees more clearly where he’s asking for things in other aspects of their lives. He doesn’t stop, but he’s more aware and she can get irritated with him over it without having to spell things out.

Besides which, she gets Athos, kneeling at her feet, looking up at her, hands bound. Gets him between her thighs. Gets him with his arms above his heads, hands held there, like their early days. She gets to lead and guide him, tell him what to do. Force him to listen. She takes his strength away and leaves him quiet and supple, at her mercy, entirely trusting. Trusting her to care for him, not as his mother but as his lover, his partner. There’s an equality between them, a balance, that she had missed.

He also takes Olivier more, so she can work without the baby interrupting lessons. Constance writes back, and Sylvie starts devising lessons that will fit on single sheets of paper, and sending them to Constance to be printed and distributed. Rochelle, her friend from Saint Antoine, begins to write to her. Staggered, uncertain letters threaded together in ugly looking words, but beautiful.

“Porthos wrote to me,” Jaqueline says, one day, coming in at the end of lessons.

She has a four year old on her hip. Henri, Sylvie identifies. He’s quite new, and clings to Jaqueline. His fingers dig into her skin, now, his eyes watching Sylvie. He always looks startled, eyes large and dark, set deep, hair starting high on his forehead in tight curls. He’s a beautiful, delicate child, a little strange. Sylvie waves to him and sticks her tongue out, and he laughs, nearly falling out of Jaqueline’s arms, reaching for Sylvie.

“Hello,” Sylvie says, lifting him. “Are you here to learn how to write?”

“Uh-uh,” Henri says, sticking his fingers in his mouth, muting himself.

“Porthos?” Sylvie asks Jaqueline.

“Yes. He has made enquiries, and has told me I have his permission to begin turning the farm on the edge of his lands into a printing press. Apparently I had asked for that. He bought the buildings and the land. He is renting the land, to fund the cost of buying a press and hiring hands.”

“Oh,” Sylvie says. “I had meant to tell you.”

“Mm,” Jaqueline agrees.

“Hands?” Henri asks, holding his own up to examine. “Hands? Um, walking along, printing?”

He mimics walking with his fingers, up Sylvie’s arms, and laughs hard.

“People,” Sylvie explains. “People who work with their hands, whose hands run the machines we want to buy.”

“GIANT hand,” Henri says, ignoring that, sketching the image in the air.

He tells her a story about giant hands taking over France, and then wriggles down and runs off, singing.

“He’s beginning to weary me,” Jaqueline admits, sitting heavily in one of the chairs. “I’m no mother, I’ve never been good with children, I have no wish to care for them. I’m here to run things, not look after people.”

“We’ll take him,” Sylvie says. “Athos and I. Olivier will like having a brother.”

“Sylvie. You know Athos-”

“Athos can go to hell. I want another child, and he’s being stubborn,” Sylvie says, lifting her chin. “He’ll come around. Henri will fit nicely with us and Oli. Bring him with whatever belongings he has, tomorrow night.”

Jaqueline shrugs, admits she’ll do a lot to get rid of him, and goes on her way. Sylvie sits in the kitchen with Robert, helping prepare dinner, and listens to him telling stories about his own wars. When he realises she knew Treville slightly, he tells stories about Treville. Sylvie makes a note of them to repeat to Athos.

*

Preparations for the press get under way a few days after Olivier’s birthday. Sylvie, this time, inserts herself into the work, helping lift and carry as they clear the farm, and make the building more appropriate for a business. She doesn’t know much about running a business, which Porthos quickly realises. He sends her a man called Bras-de-Fer. Who quickly announces that his name is André, in fact.

“Arms of iron, eh?” Sylvie asks, looking the man over.

He’s scrawny, thin, and looks sickly. He’s very white, pale as the moon. He’s apparently got a damaged leg that’s never getting better, so is ‘no earthly use’ at the front. He has a head for numbers, and ran a business in Paris for years.

“General du Vallon thought it very funny,” André says, sourly. “Though, he didn’t come up with it. It’s fairly common. Usually less ironic.”

“He liked you,” Sylvie says, smiling. André gives her a brief smile in return, amused, then scowls carefully.

“Yes, so he said. He told me you want to set up a printing press, in the middle of nowhere?”

“Printing educational material,” Sylvie says, nodding. “Free of charge.”

“How am I to make a profit without charging? No, we charge. We send out advertisements to wealthy families. There are never tutors good enough for their darlings. This way, we say, they can pick and choose what is learnt. They buy a month or a year’s worth of lessons, and they can check quality and know what their children are learning. We sell to schools for cut rates. We offer to print letters and advertisements for a charge. We make our services available.”

Sylvie shrugs. She’s content with that. André has other plans, lots of them. He starts to draw them up. He changes the way the buildings are laid out, turns the courtyard into a entryway with a large sign, sets the stables aside to keep as stables to house their clients’ horses and carriages. He walks the countryside, limping steadily, Sylvie at his side, giving out fliers to advertise their existence, sets up signs along the tracks, pays landlords in pubs to put bills up.

A side effect of their endeavour is that they can easily order in supplies for the refuge, now. They have them brought to the printers, and no one bats an eyelid. Sylvie supervises storage in one of the barns, with a track nearby that leads to the Belgard estate. She takes Olivier to do the rounds of the local farms, and they find three kittens to bring to the storage barn to keep the mice down. Olivier names them joyously, toddling around after them.

Sylvie realises, a month later, that she rarely sees Athos, these days. They kiss each other in the morning, but they get up at different times, Athos lying in late until Olivier wants to get up, Sylvie rising with the sun to get to work. They exchange a few words when they swap Olivier from one to the other, and they eat together when Sylvie’s back in time for dinner, but that’s all.

“Do you still want to do this?” Athos asks, one evening.

Sylvie is looking over an accounts ledger from the press that André had given her earlier, checking they’re not over-spending in advertising themselves. There are three women arriving tomorrow who will work and live at the press, and Sylvie wants to make sure everything’s set up for them. The press itself will arrive at the end of the week.

“Hmm? It’ll be fine. André’s very clever, he’ll turn a profit, or at least keep us breaking even,” Sylvie says, running a finger down a column of numbers.

“Not the press. Us,” Athos says.

Sylvie turns, her attention flying from work to Athos. He looks so unsure, so tired. Sylvie wonders when that happened. He also looks pale, and she wonders if he’s getting ill. Then she processes his question properly, and leaps to her feet, going to embrace him. He sighs, going limp in her arms.

“I’ve just been busy,” Sylvie says, confused about how this happened.

“I know. I’ve been worried.”

“How long?”

“This week,” Athos admits, shrugging. “Not too long.”

“A week? That’s pretty long to be worried for. Of course I still want to do this, you fool.”

“I just… I barely see you. I miss you.”

“Oh.”

Sylvie looks at the ledger, then at Athos, still docile and quiet in her arms. She pushes the hair off his face, and kisses his cheek.

“I’m being like a child, aren’t I?” Athos asks.

“A little needy,” Sylvie says. “But no, you’re not asking that of me. I hadn’t realised that you missed me, or that it wasn’t nice for you. I’ve really just been busy. I’ll make some time for you, okay?”

“Alright,” Athos says, sighing. “I haven’t got much to do, to be honest. Just looking after Olivier. I miss Henri. I know I wasn’t enthusiastic about it, but…”

“His mother turned up, we had to give him back,” Sylvie says, gently. “I miss him as well. We could try again, though. There’s a little boy, Clovis. He’s got no one right now.”

“I know him,” Athos mumbles. “He plays with me and Oli a lot. I’d like to look after him.”

“He’s only three,” Sylvie says. “It’ll be a handful, two so young.”

“I’ll manage,” Athos says, smiling.

Sylvie nods and strokes his hair, then leads him to bed and forgets work for the rest of the night. Clovis joins them at the end of the week, about the same time as the printing press. He sleeps badly. Sylvie gets up and goes to him when he cries, but it’s Athos who can soothe him. Before a week has passed, Clovis is sleeping in their bed with them, little hands always tangled in Athos’ shirt. Sylvie still wakes with them, when Clovis is upset, and he seems to like her being there too.

She’s away a lot, to begin with, getting the printing press up and running. She and André spend a lot of time talking to local landowners, writing letters to those further afield, and answering letters with requests. The queen has endorsed their materials, which means they’ve already got a lot to do. There are orders coming in, and before the month is out they’re forced to hire two more hands.

Sylvie takes a step back after the second month, returning her efforts to the refuge classrooms. This means she finishes much earlier in the day, and can return to their rooms. She discovers Athos in the gardens, more often than not, with Oli and Clovis, playing. Clovis is a very quiet child. Sylvie sits and watches them. Clovis begins coming to her, as well as to Athos, and encouraging her to play with him.

She’s sat braiding his hair, on a Thursday. He’s between her legs, singing quietly. Oli and Athos are down in the kitchens after some fruit, so it’s just the two of them. His hair is so fluffy and soft it’s hard to put it in place, and keeps bouncing up, making them laugh. She’s good at this, though.

“Maman, will Papa find me an apricot, do you think?” Clovis asks, breaking off his singing.

Sylvie’s hands still a moment, and she forces them to go on. Her heart swoops, and she smiles so hard her face hurts. She presses a kiss to the crown of his head, and he tips back to look at her, smiling when he sees her smiling.

“Of course he will,” Sylvie says. “Athos never gives up a mission until it is complete. He’ll find you an apricot, you wait and see, my little button.”

Clovis boops his nose, a little button, and sits forwards, letting her finish his hair. Athos does find an apricot. He finds three. Oli brings one in each hand, dropping both in Clovis’ lap, and then goes back to Athos for the third, plonking down on his butt to chew his way through it, getting juice everywhere. Athos sits beside her and they watch their boys. She leans into his side, sighing in contentment.

Clovis comes with her to work, sometimes. Riding on her hip as she walks up to the press, or sitting quietly listening in her classes. He likes it best when they ride, perching in front of her, head back, singing into the wind. He likes visiting businesses to make delivery of printed materials. Mostly because people often give him something sweet to eat or drink. He works out that they like it when he sings, and he gets more when he does that.

“He’s such an enterprising little spirit,” she tells Athos, laughing as Clovis sets about worming his way into the kitchen where Madame Comeau is cooking. Even she gives him little treats. Virginie is there, too, and laughs at him, lifting him to her knees.

“Hello. You should kiss Therese, she’s been eating honey and you love honey,” Clovis says, patting Virginie’s cheek.

Madame Cormeau and Virginia both go very still, avoiding looking at Athos and Sylvie. Sylvie frowns, then her eyes go wide and she opens her mouth. Athos pats her shoulder and shakes his head. He knew, she realises. Then she realises she should have, too. The two women live together, and seek one another out. They’re clearly good friends. She just never considered.

“Are you making honey cakes?” Athos asks.

“Yes,” Madame Cormeau says.

“Good. Porthos loves them,” Athos says.

“The marquis is returning?” Virginie asks.

Madame Cormeau scowls. She never took to Porthos, still considering him an invader of her home. Sylvie hides her smile, but Virginie clearly notices. She grins back, laughing silently.

“Tomorrow,” Athos says. “Apparently. According to his letter. I came to inform Sylvie.”

“At least we are forewarned, this time,” Madame Cormeau says.

Virginie tips her head on one side, considering Athos and Sylvie. Then she gets up, setting Clovis on the floor, and goes to Madame Cormeau, pressing her lips to the woman’s neck. Madame Cormeau grumbles, but turns to kiss Virginie’s lips. She then sends Athos and Sylvie a defiant look. Clovis claps and comes to Sylvie, asking to be lifted.

“I need to get Oli from Jaqueline, I left him there,” Athos says.

Sylvie gives Virginie and Madame Cormeau a smile, and goes with him. She takes his arm and makes little happy noises all the way to Jaqueline’s office. Athos laughs at her, but he’s clearly pleased, too. Their friends being happy always makes Athos happy. They collect Olivier and spend a quiet evening, just the four of them. Clovis sings and the boys play and Sylvie and Athos exchange their own kisses.

Porthos arrives the next morning, Brujon mounted at his side, six soldiers with them. He’s in uniform, and he’s grinning, and he’s healthy and uninjured. He leaps from his horse as he always has, swinging down before the horse comes to a complete stop. He takes Athos in his arms, and, as Athos is holding Olivier, he gets Olivier, too. Then he comes over to Sylvie, and ducks his head. Clovis, on her hip, buries his head in her shoulder.

“I’m Porthos,” Porthos says. “You must be Clovis. Heard a lot about you. I brought you a present.”

Clovis makes an interested noise, but doesn’t emerge. Porthos grunts, and tugs something small out of his pocket. It’s wooden, a little animal of some sort. He passes it to Sylvie with a quirk of a smile. It’s a cat, the colour of the wood matching one of the ones they have up at the barn. Sylvie makes a soft sound and presses it into Clovis’ hand, and he looks, then gasps, twisting in her arms to look wide-eyed at Porthos.

“How did you know?” Clovis asks. “This is Danielle. How did you know?”

“A little bird told me, and then I found that wood, and I made you that. She’s your favourite kitten, isn’t she?” Porthos says. Clovis nods. “Want to show me?”

Clovis nods again, wriggling to get down. They’re gone for most of the evening, both returning equally joyful and dirty, Porthos bent almost double to listen to Clovis tell him about the cats. He settles on the floor in the outer room, and Athos puts Olivier into his lap, and Porthos lets out a sigh of complete content.

“You saw Elodie?” Athos asks.

“Yep. And my little Marie-Cessette. She’s gonna be two soon! Can you believe that?”

“No,” Athos says.

“Look at Oli. Look at you! Last I saw you were just a small baby.”

“Big,” Oli says, throwing his arms wide to show how big, tipping himself back against Porthos’ body.

“Yeah, you are. Giant,” Porthos says. “Like me, eh?”

“You’re a giant?” Clovis asks, softly, getting hold of Porthos’ knee and resting his head there.

Porthos tells an entirely untrue but very entertaining story about how he became a giant. It involves a lot of eating and fighting. Athos is as entertained as the boys, and Sylvie watches on, unbearably fond of the mess of them, but also wishing she had someone to roll her eyes with and despair of men.

“There’s a little girl,” Sylvie says, that night, curled up with Athos. “Her name’s Henriette. She’s six, lost both her parents.”

“I’d like that,” Athos says.

Sylvie smiles, utterly, utterly happy.


End file.
